Stolen Away

5

Elmer Irey and Frank J. Wilson were waiting in Lindbergh’s study; neither had taken a seat. They stood there, hats in hand, both in black, like twin undertakers.

Irey and Wilson were the Ike and Mike of law enforcement-wearing different-color ties wasn’t enough to lessen the sameness. Both men were in their mid-forties and wore round-lensed black eyeglasses like Robert Woolsey of the Wheeler and Woolsey comedy team-a couple of solemn, long-faced, round-jawed, dark-haired, jug-eared feds as interchangeable as a pair of socks.

Irey was the boss; he was the chief of the Internal Revenue intelligence unit. Wilson-and if you had to tell them apart, Wilson was the balding one-was his chief agent.

The two men traded blank looks upon seeing me, but in that blankness was a wealth of contempt.

Then Irey stepped forward and, with a smile as thin as the ace of spades, offered his hand to Lindbergh, saying, “It’s a great honor meeting you, Colonel. I wish the circumstances were otherwise. This is Agent Wilson.”

Wilson stepped forward, shook hands with Lindbergh, saying, “An honor meeting you, Colonel.”

Lindbergh offered them chairs and, as Breckinridge had just hung up the phone, took his position behind the desk. Breckinridge stood behind him and to his left, like a field marshal. Schwarzkopf and I took chairs on the sidelines.

Irey, his hat in his lap, glanced around the study at what must have seemed to him an unnecessary crowd of observers.

“I think, Colonel,” Irey said, in a voice bread-and-butter bland, “that we might want some privacy.”

Lindbergh looked to his left, then to Irey and said, guilelessly, “The door is closed.”

Edgily, Wilson said, “Colonel, we really should speak to you confidentially.”

Lindbergh’s smile was a tad tired, “Gentlemen, I can’t tell you how pleased and grateful I am that you’ve taken your Sunday to make this trip. Your help, your counsel, is something we greatly need. But the men in this room are my closest advisers.”

Who, me?

“Colonel Breckinridge is my attorney and one of my closest friends,” he continued. “Colonel Schwarzkopf is in charge of the State Police in whose jurisdiction this matter lies.”

Irey said, “With all due respect to Colonel Schwarzkopf, there have already been numerous flaws in the methods employed by the state police.”

“Really?” Schwarzkopf said, icily. “Such as?”

“Your fingerprint man,” Irey said, turning to look at the frowning Schwarzkopf, “failed to find any latents on the ransom letter or envelope, the ladder, the chisel, the window, the crib or the boy’s toys.”

“It took an outsider,” Wilson chimed in, “to come in and take another try…and he found all sorts of prints, even after ruling out those of your own troopers. Thirty to forty on the ladder alone.”

“Have you sent those prints to Washington?” Irey asked Schwarzkopf. “The Bureau of Investigation has a vast collection of fingerprints of known criminals.”

“This is not a federal matter,” Schwarzkopf said stiffly.

Egos. A kid’s life at stake and they were playing at fucking egos.

“Colonel Schwarzkopf stays, gentlemen,” Lindbergh said. “You may disagree with his methods, but he is, after all, the man in charge.”

Said the man in charge.

Wilson said, flatly, “And what about Heller?”

These T-men knew me, a little, from Chicago. I’d been on the fringes of their Capone investigation. They’d been on the fringes of the Jake Lingle trial.

Lindbergh nodded at me and smiled tightly. “Detective Heller is our liaison man with the Chicago Police Department.”

Irey maintained his poker face; Wilson’s cement face cracked a smile.

“Colonel Lindbergh,” Wilson said, “the first thing we of the Intelligence Unit learned when we took on the Capone case was not to count on the Chicago police.”

Irey gave Wilson a quick, cutting glance. “What Agent Wilson means,” Irey said, “is that this case is not a Chicago matter.”

That wasn’t even close to what Wilson meant.

“It isn’t a federal matter, either,” Schwarzkopf insisted.

“Colonel Lindbergh,” I said, rising, “I’ll be glad to step outside.”

“No, Nate,” Lindbergh said, motioning me to sit back down. “Stay, please.”

And Irey and Wilson did double takes, hearing Lindbergh call me by my first name; and at that moment Eddie Cantor had nothing on Schwarzkopf, in the banjo-eyes department.

“Detective Heller,” Lindbergh said, “comes highly recommended by a colleague of yours.”

“Eliot Ness,” Wilson said, with just a hint of a smirk.

“Yes,” Lindbergh said.

“I believe Heller is a police contact of Eliot’s,” Irey said. “Isn’t that correct, Heller?”

“That’s correct, Elmer.”

Irey, who hadn’t looked at me when he spoke to me, now turned his head my way. His eyes were blue-steel and hard in his placid face. “Heller, you don’t know me well enough to use my first name.”

“My apologies, Mr. Irey. You might attach a ‘mister’ to my name, while you’re at it.”

Lindbergh smiled faintly, briefly.

Irey nodded. “Point well taken, Mr. Heller.” He turned his attention back to Lindbergh. “I don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot, Colonel. While I don’t wish to be critical, I would be less than frank if I didn’t say I’m disturbed by the presence of questionable characters such as…” And I thought he’d insert my name here, but he didn’t. “…Morris ‘Mickey’ Rosner.”

“I can well understand that, Mr. Irey,” Lindbergh said. “But I hope you can understand, gentlemen, that I’m pursuing every avenue that presents itself, where the safe return of my son is concerned.”

Wilson sat forward; he turned his hat in his hand, slowly, like it was a steering wheel. “Colonel, according to newspaper accounts this morning, Rosner has engaged the services of two more underworld types…”

“Salvatore Spitale,” Irey said, reading from a small notebook, “and Irving Bitz.” He looked up from the notebook. “Proprietors of a speakeasy on Forty-First Street in New York.”

Lindbergh nodded. “And I’ve given all three of them expense money. Gentlemen, your disapproval is noted-and I thank you for expressing that disapproval in so restrained a fashion. Rest assured you’re not alone in your opinion.”

Schwarzkopf cleared his throat. “Colonel Lindbergh feels that by letting the underworld know we’ve appointed go-betweens from their ranks, we may facilitate negotiations with the kidnappers. Personally, I share your misgivings, Mr. Irey, Mr. Wilson…but I will accede to the wishes of the Colonel.”

There he went again, treating Lindbergh like his goddamn boss. At least Irey and Wilson knew that the coppers ought to be in charge.

“I’ve asked you to come up, Mr. Irey,” Lindbergh was saying, “because I feel I should talk to somebody in an official capacity about this Capone offer.”

Irey nodded somberly. “You’ll be hearing even more about it tomorrow. We understand Capone was interviewed this morning by Arthur Brisbane, who flew to Chicago for the privilege.”

The New York Journal’s Brisbane was Hearst’s most highly paid editor and columnist, a self-important double dome whose purple prose on the Capone offer would further inflame a Lindbergh-inflamed public.

“It’ll be in Brisbane’s syndicated column tomorrow morning,” Wilson said, “all over the country. Everybody and his duck will be telling you to take Scarface up on his proposition.”

Lindbergh leaned back in his chair and studied Irey and Wilson as if they were frost forming on his monoplane wings. “What do you gentlemen think?”

“We think it’s a bluff,” Wilson said confidently, sitting back. “We think you should disregard it.”

Irey, measuring his words, said, “I hate to say this, Colonel…but Capone doesn’t know who has the child. He is a desperate man trying to deal his way out of jail.”

“We know he thinks,” Wilson said, “or says he thinks, a former gang member of his did it.”

“Bob Conroy,” I said.

All heads turned my way.

“Is Detective Heller right?” Lindbergh asked, eyes tight. “Is this Conroy the one Capone claims took my son?”

Irey nodded, slowly; Wilson nodded, too, but two nods for every one of Irey’s.

Irey said, “Our preliminary investigation puts Conroy nearly one hundred and fifty miles from here, the night of the kidnapping.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “Have you talked to Conroy yet?”

“No,” Irey said, not looking at me. “We have agents in New York who are investigating. Two alibi witnesses place Conroy in New Haven, Connecticut.”

“Well,” I said, “New Haven isn’t the moon. In a fast car, a hundred fifty miles is nothing, these days.”

“We intend,” Irey said, an edge of impatience in his voice, “to find Conroy, of course, and talk to him…but he didn’t do it.”

Lindbergh’s expression darkened. Then he said, “Should you make that assumption, going in? I’ve been told that the biggest mistake a detective can make is to form a snap decision early on about who or what is behind a crime.”

Both Irey and Wilson shifted in their seats; it was perfectly coordinated, like a couple of really good chorus girls. It made me smile.

“You’re right, Colonel,” Irey said to Lindbergh. “We’ll keep an open mind about Conroy-we’ll find him, and we’ll talk to him. We don’t see it as a major lead, however…because we don’t think Capone is sincere.”

“Colonel,” Wilson said, “Big Al just wants out of jail.”

Where you boys helped put him, and you’ll be goddamned if you’ll let the bastard out even if it is to help save a kid’s life.

Lindbergh cast his hollow gaze my way. “What do you think, Nate?”

“About Capone? It could be a hoax. But I don’t think we can rule out, at this early stage, the possibility that Capone may have engineered the kidnapping.”

“That’s absurd,” Wilson said.

But Irey said nothing.

I said, “You said it yourself: he’s a desperate man. He’s also a public figure-like Colonel Lindbergh. What better target could he choose than a man who, in a bizarre way, is one of the few people in this country on his own level? Besides, can you put anything past a man who can turn a tender holiday like St. Valentine’s Day into something forever grisly in the minds of the masses?”

“You think,” Lindbergh said to me, with a gaze so flatly penetrating it was unnerving, “that Capone may truly know where my boy is? Because he wants to ‘solve’ a crime he committed-or, that is, had committed for him?”

“It’s possible,” I said. “All to buy his cynical way into the public’s affections-and out of a jail cell. And it’s an opinion held by the federal agent instrumental in putting him away-Eliot Ness.”

In other words, screw you, Agents Irey and Wilson.

“Mr. Heller may be right,” Irey said, more gracious about it than I figured he’d be. “I think it’s a long shot, frankly…but I can’t in all honesty rule the possibility out.”

Even Wilson seemed willing to begrudge me my opinion. “I think we should find Bob Conroy and make him talk.” He paused ominously, then added, “But we don’t need to let Al Capone out of stir to accomplish that.”

“I hope,” Lindbergh said quietly, “that you will proceed with caution. It’s been my position from the very beginning that there must be no police interference…” He raised his hand and cut the air with it. “…no police activity of any kind that might interfere with my paying the ransom and reclaiming my boy.”

That ultimately wasn’t-or anyway shouldn’t have been-Lindbergh’s decision, of course, but Irey and Wilson let it go. I knew when it got down to brass tacks, Irey would act like a cop. Wilson, too.

“I wonder if we might see the kidnap note,” Irey said.

“Certainly,” Lindbergh said. He pulled open a desk drawer. The note, which ought to have been in an evidence envelope in Trenton, was handed to Irey. I moved in and looked over his shoulder as he read.

In pencil, in an uneven, shaky, possibly disguised hand, on cheap dimestore bond paper, the letter said the following:

Dear Sir!

Have 50.000 $ redy 25 000 $ in

20 $ bills 1.5000 $ in 10 $ bills and

10000 $ in 5 $ bills. After 2–4 days

we will inform you were to deliver

the Mony.

We warn you for making

anyding public or for notify the Police

the chld is in gut care.

Indication for all letters are

singnature

and 3 holds.

The “singnature” was the faint impression of two blue quarter-size circles, their left edges the most distinct, creating the impression of two c’s, with a red nickel-size spot to the right of the second c; also three holes (“holds”) had been punched, one through the red spot, two others at left and right.

Schwarzkopf said, “Obviously, we haven’t released the content of the note to the press. Only by that signature can we know for sure that subsequent notes really are from the kidnappers.”

Then why was the fucking thing stuck in Lindbergh’s desk? Every servant in the house had access to it!

“I would suggest that you put this document under lock and key, immediately,” Irey said. He was speaking to Schwarzkopf, not Lindbergh, although he was in the process of returning the note to the latter. “Who have you shared this with?”

“No one,” Schwarzkopf said. “The New York Police have requested copies, but we’ve declined. So has J. Edgar Hoover. I feel this is a matter for the New Jersey State Police, and distributing this document frivolously, even to other law enforcement agencies, might have unfortunate results.”

That sounded halfway reasonable, but it boiled down to Schwarzkopf not wanting to share the spotlight, didn’t it?

“Of course, we have given a copy of it to Mr. Rosner,” Lindbergh said.

Irey and Wilson looked at each other. I rubbed my eyes.

“What?” Irey said.

Lindbergh shrugged. “Mr. Rosner wanted to show it to certain individuals in the underworld-Owney Madden, among others-who might be able to identify the handwriting or that strange ‘singnature.’”

Madden was an underworld figure who was to New York, roughly, what Capone was to Chicago.

“Let me get this straight,” Wilson said tightly. “The New York Police can’t have a copy, J. Edgar Hoover can’t have a copy, and we can’t have a copy. But Mickey Rosner can.”

Irey, obviously disturbed by this news, and rightly so, said, “I’m afraid the legitimacy of any future notes is endangered. You’ve opened yourselves up to interlopers.”

“Gentlemen,” Breckinridge said, “a mutual friend of ours, Bob Thayer, a partner in Colonel William Donovan’s office, accompanied Mr. Rosner to see Madden and several others of that ilk. Rosner never left Thayer’s sight, nor did his copy of the note.”

“I believe we’ll have no difficulty,” Lindbergh said, defensiveness creeping into his tone, “telling communiques from the real kidnappers apart from those of any pretenders seeking extortion money.” He reached into the still-open desk drawer. “In fact, though it’s not publicly known…we have received a second letter.”

The usually unflappable Irey sat up; Wilson was already sitting forward.

Lindbergh handed Irey another white bond sheet, written on both sides in ink. Again, I read over Irey’s shoulder:

Dear Sir. We have warned you note to make

anyding Public also notify the Polise

now you have to take consequences, ths

means we will have to hold the baby untill everyding

is quiet. We can note make any appointment

just now. We know very well what it

means to us. Is it rely necessary to

make a world affair out off this, or to

get your baby back as sun as possible.

To settle those affair in a quick way

will be better for both seits. Dont be

afraid about the baby two ladys

keeping care of it day and night.

We also will feed him

according to the diet.

Below this were the words “Singtuere on all letters” and an arrow pointing to a symbol similar to the one on the first note, but in this case the blue circles were distinct. The central, smaller circle was again blood-red; and three holes had again been punched.

Irey turned the letter over and on the other side it said:

We are interested to send him back in

gut health. Ouer ransom was made aus

for 50000 $ but now we have to take

another person to it and probable have

to keep the baby for a longer time as we

expected. So the amount will be 70,000-

20.000 in 50 $ bills 25.000 $ in 20 $ bills

15000 $ in 10 $ bills and 10.000 in 5$ bills

don’t mark any bills or take them

from one serial noumer. We will

inform you latter were to deliver the

mony. but we will note do so

until the Police is out of ths case

and the pappers are quiet.

The Kidnaping we preparet

for years, so we are preparet

for everyding.

“When did you receive this?” Irey asked.

“Yesterday,” Lindbergh said.

Irey passed the note to Wilson, who’d already leaned over to read it, but now read it again. “I’m no handwriting expert,” Irey said, “but that does look very similar. As does the distinctive symbol.”

“It’s not exactly the same,” I pointed out.

“But close,” Irey said. “Can I see the first note again?”

Lindbergh obliged him.

“They contain many of the same misspellings,” Irey said, pointing to the first note. “Good is ‘g-u-t,’ money is ‘m-o-n-y.’”

“Signature is misspelled in both notes,” I pointed out, “but in two different ways.”

Wilson said, to nobody in particular, “A German, you think?”

“Possibly,” Irey said. “Probably.”

“Or somebody trying to sound German,” I said.

Lindbergh’s eyes narrowed. “Why would anyone do that?”

I shrugged. “Same reason you’d try to disguise your handwriting. To leave a false trail. The war’s not that distant in the American mind-Germans make swell fall guys.”

“You might be right, Mr. Heller,” Irey admitted. “There’s another oddity, here-particularly in the second note. Small, easy words like ‘not’ and ‘soon’ and ‘hole’ are misspelled; but larger, more difficult words, such as ‘consequences,’ ‘appointment,’ ‘interested,’ among others, are spelled correctly.”

“So maybe somebody’s posing,” I said. “Maybe it’s somebody literate playing semiliterate German immigrant.”

“Or,” Wilson offered, “a semiliterate German using an English/German dictionary…looking up only the hard words.”

“Could be that,” I admitted.

Lindbergh seemed to be enjoying listening to some real cops discuss the case; Schwarzkopf, not surprisingly, hadn’t contributed a goddamn thing. His face twitched with frustration.

“What interests me more than the way the letter looks,” Lindbergh said, “is what it says. It says my son is in good health, and that his abductors saw the diet Anne and I gave to the papers, and they’re following it. That’s good news.”

“They’re also hitting you up for another twenty grand,” I said.

“That doesn’t concern me,” Lindbergh said.

I didn’t know whether that meant that he was rolling in dough, or that he didn’t measure his son in monetary terms.

“It’s clear to me,” Lindbergh continued, “that police participation in this case has to be minimized.”

“What?” Irey said. “Colonel Lindbergh, you can’t be serious…”

“I’m deadly serious. The biggest mistake I made was waiting two hours for the fingerprint officer to arrive, before I allowed that first note to be opened. I’d already called the police in, and the newspapers were already all over the story, before I knew that that note would warn me against the participation of either group.”

“Colonel Lindbergh,” I said gently, “there’s no way you could’ve kept either the cops or the reporters out of this case.”

“Gentlemen,” Lindbergh said, standing, “I appreciate your counsel.”

He extended his hand to Irey, who suddenly realized he was being dismissed; awkwardly Irey stood, as did Wilson.

“Colonel,” Irey said, as they shook hands, “I have to return to Washington, but Agent Wilson is setting up shop with several other agents, in New York. They’ll be working the case from there.”

“Discreetly, I hope,” Lindbergh said.

Irey didn’t seem to know what to say to that.

“We’ll, uh, keep Colonel Schwarzkopf informed of our progress,” Wilson said. “I hope he’ll pay us the same courtesy.”

Lindbergh came out from around the desk and put a hand on Irey’s shoulder; it was a rare gesture of warmth from this reserved man.

“I know you’re disappointed by my desire to deal honestly with the kidnappers,” he said. “You want to capture them, and of course I would like to see that happen, one day, as well…but my priority now is to get my son back, safe and sound.”

“I’m a father myself,” Irey said softly.

“On the other hand,” Lindbergh said, walking the men to the door, “as far as Capone is concerned…I wouldn’t ask for the release of that monster, if it would save a life.”

Irey nodded solemnly.

Then Wilson asked if they could have a look at the nursery, the kidnap ladder and so on; Lindbergh put Schwarzkopf in charge of that.

Which I thought was a smart move. Even Lindbergh knew that Schwarzkopf and the feds had better get used to each other.

Then I was alone with Lindbergh and Breckinridge.

“Thanks for your insights, Nate,” Lindbergh said.

“My pleasure, Slim,” I said, trying to get comfortable with this level of familiarity.

“What do you know about psychics?” he asked, suddenly.

“Not a hell of a lot. Most of ’em are bunco artists.”

“But some aren’t?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I’d like you to help Colonel Breckinridge check a couple of them out. One of them has quite a reputation. His name is…what is it, Henry?”

Breckinridge checked his notes.

“Cayce,” he said. “Edgar Cayce.”